The Weather Forecast
by luna8
Summary: Something different... I've warned you
1. It's raining

Ok, folks here we go! Once again, I'm starting a story with no clear plot in the foreseeable future. But who needs a plot anyway?

Add the usual: I give, I give! I only borrowed them!!

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Clarice glared up at the sky, as if the rain had been sent to plague her personally. She should have checked the weather forecast instead of listening to the travel agent who assured her that it was a myth that it always rained in London. Since she'd stepped off the plane a week ago, it had done nothing but rain.

The reason she was in London really shouldn't be examined to closely. She was hunting a wanted criminal, but she was no longer an FBI agent. The incident at the lake house had put the final nail in the coffin of her career. Now she was just a lowly PI with a hunch, and she always tried listened to her hunches. Especially when they involved a certain cannibalistic doctor.

There had been an article in the Tattler some weeks ago, about a Lecter sighting in London. The FBI held a press conference denouncing the source and saying that it wasn't worth the taxpayers' dollars to go on a wild goose chase. Clarice gave the article more credence, it was written by a young journalism student fresh out of college, who got the job at the paper because the article he wrote was guaranteed to sell. As she boarded the plane, to Heathrow, she told herself she was going to London to apprehend the son-of-a-bitch, and win back her place in the FBI. At least that's what she kept telling herself. The fact that she wasn't quite sure how she was going to arrest him was something she ignored. As was the fact that she kept wondering if she really wanted her old job back.

Clarice continued to glare up at the offending rain clouds, as if her look alone could scare better weather into being. The water was running down the back of her neck and her hair was thoroughly soaked. She'd been standing under the limited shelter of a balcony across the street from a town house where she was told an eccentric writer lived. She had yet to see the man, but his description fit well with her memories of the doctor. Then again, she could be spying on some poor old man who liked the company of his books better than he did real people. She wondered briefly if perhaps he didn't have the right idea. She had to drag herself back from her flights of mental whimsy to concentrate on the task at hand.

She'd been out in the rain for more than two hours when she decided that enough was enough. Crossing the street quickly, she bolted up the stairs to the front door. She paused a moment to decide whether she should knock or just barge in. Prudence dictated that she knock, as she didn't want to get on the doctor's bad side immediately. She knocked twice, hard and fast, and then twice more. There was no response. Suddenly worried that perhaps he had divined her immediate presence, she had the lock open under thirty seconds later.

The big oak door swung open silently into a dark entranceway. She stepped into the hall and shut the door behind her. She immediately noticed the chill inside the house. She shivered as she lifted her wet hair away from her collar. There was no heat or lights on; it was as if no one was there. She cursed her luck at coming so close once again. She was contemplating returning to her hotel and finding some dry clothes before continuing to search the house, but something made her stay. Perhaps it was the faint scent of fleece in the air. She wanted to see where he had been living with her own eyes. She'd only seen pictures of his apartment in Florence.

She moved out to her right and found herself in a formal dinning room. Memories of the lake house flashed before her mind and she quickly backed out of the room. She was contemplating heading past the stairs towards what she assumed was the kitchen when she heard something coming from the room on her immediate right. She spun around with her hand on the butt of her gun. There was no one there. She shook her head and continued into the dark room. Groping along the wall for a light switch, the room illuminated as her hand came into contact with on of the old push button switches. She was in the den, the walls covered with floor to ceiling bookshelves. No wonder he picked this place, she thought.

The sound came again from behind her and she spun around, lightening quick, to face the couch. Here eyes widened as they locked on a gaze of cobalt blue.

"Clarice," came the hoarse whisper, before the penetrating gaze was locked behind a sea of oblivion.

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Yes I know it's short, but I couldn't let you in on what little plot I have so soon! Next installment up soon, I promise.


	2. It's pouring

AN: In my world Lecter's eyes are blue because Anthony Hopkins' eyes are blue. This piece follows the movie, so his eyes are definitely blue, and in my stories that follow the book, his eyes are still blue! Chalk it up to contacts. Thanks for the reviews, just thought I'd clarify. If you find anything else wrong with my stories, PLEASE tell me! Thanks, luna.

Add the usual: I'm not this smart, really!

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Clarice stood rooted to the spot until her training took over and she began to analyze the situation. Either Dr. Lecter was playing possum, or he'd just passed out on her. She didn't want to get too close until she knew which was which.

"Dr. Lecter?" she called towards the figure on the couch. There was no response so she moved forward a step. "Dr. Lecter, I'm warning you! If this is a game, it's going to get you shot. The safety is off my gun and any little surprises may cause me to pull the trigger. We wouldn't want that to happen now would we?" As she spoke to him, she kept her firearm trained on his chest. Still nothing happened. She began to notice details. Once again how cold it was in the house, and that the doctor seemed to be wrapped up in a wet raincoat. She could see he was breathing, but he made no response that he heard her. There was a brown paper bag on the coffee table, alongside a water-stained fedora. She pushed it over with her toe and several bottles of medication spilled out onto the table. There was Tylenol, some gravol, and a bottle of cough syrup.

At that moment, Lecter coughed and she almost shot him. Calming her breathing, she realized what the noise was she had heard earlier. It was a wheezing, shallow cough as if he wasn't getting enough air. Was he sick? she wondered. She finally summoned enough courage to reach out to him. She drew her hand back sharply from his as she met hot flesh. She reached out again and touched his forehead. There was still no response from the doctor, but she could definitely tell he was burning up. The raincoat he was wearing was damp and musty smelling. She picked up a receipt that had also fallen out of the bag. It had yesterday's date on it. She looked up in horror when she realized that the doctor had been lying in the cold and damp for more than a day, by himself. He'd probably been sick for a few days, hence the medications, but going out in the rain again had done him more harm than good. He'd obviously collapsed on the couch and she hoped it was due to exhaustion and not something more serious.

Somewhere in the back of Clarice's mind she decided that she couldn't take him to the hospital, where his state of comatose dictated he be taken, because he would be arrested. That meant that the only person around to take care of the man was her. The sorry leftovers of the FBI still moldering in her mind were tossed in the trash heap as soon as she began to unbutton his coat. The first thing she needed to do was get him dry and then try to bring his fever down.

She remembered reading cases of people who suffered permanent brain damage due to high fever. She'd seen kids get sick in the orphanage, but she'd never actually nursed anyone. She had him stripped down to his shirt and pants. They were wet too, and warm to the touch. She remembered Ardelia telling her there were two ways to bring down a fever. You could either submerge the person in cold water or snow, or you could sweat it out of them. She didn't think she was strong enough to move the doctor to the bathroom, so she opted for the second option. She stripped him down to his boxer shorts, and wrapped him in the throw she found on the adjacent chair.

"I'm sorry about this doctor. You know I would never abuse your privacy, but you did the same to me when I was shot. Consider this pay back." Talking to him, even if he couldn't answer back, made her feel better.

She needed a source of heat; she gazed around until she saw the huge stone fireplace at the end of the room. She walked over quickly and found a good supply of wood. After fumbling with shaky fingers, she lit a match and soon a good-sized fire was crackling, sending out waves of much needed heat into the cold room. She glanced back at the doctor before heading back out to the hallway. She would need more blankets, lots more blankets. She raced up the stairs and stripped every blanket off all three beds. Coming back down the stairs she noticed the thermostat, and dropped her bundle in order to investigate. Sure enough, it was set below fifteen degrees. She pushed the thermostat up and heard the furnace kick in somewhere below her. Smiling at her small victory she picked up the blankets and returned to the living room.

The doctor was right where she had left him. She spread blankets over him until all that could bee seen was his face. It was then that she noticed his dry cracked lips. He probably hadn't had anything to drink for quite some time. Even Clarice knew how important fluids were to someone who was sick. She left the room again, this time heading for the kitchen. Water was probably the best thing. She ran the water at the sink after searching through the cupboards for a glass. She was halfway down the hallway, when she realized that he wouldn't be able to drink it. Pondering the problem, she remembered her uncle nursing a sick horse. He'd bought the animal in order to breed her, in an attempt to make the farm more lucrative. She hadn't been able to stand up and therefore couldn't drink. He'd taken a rag and dribble water into her mouth. Clarice shook her head when she remembered they had put the horse down. She'd been thankful it wasn't Hannah. Moving back to the kitchen she found a clean dishcloth in a drawer and then returned to the living room. She almost dropped the glass when she saw movement on the couch. Then she realized that the doctor was shivering violently. She hurried to his side putting the glass carefully on the table. So much for nerves of steel, she thought. Must have lost those when I lost my job. She shook her head as she grasped the doctor's shoulders. His whole frame was shaking. She talked to him, more for her sake than his. She felt way out of her depth.

"Come on doctor, you gotta get well otherwise you won't be able to run anymore. You wouldn't want to miss out on your games! Like the emails you sent to Mr. Crawford. Speaking of which how on earth did you get his address? You'll have to tell me later."

When the doctor's shivering ceased, Clarice reached for the glass of water beside her. She dipped the cloth in the glass and squeezed a few drops onto the doctors cracked lips. When he swallowed reflexively, she was encouraged; she didn't want to drown him. She continued with the rag until the glass was empty. It was getting very warm in the room between the fire and the heat from the furnace, so Clarice pulled off her Jacket and sweatshirt. Then she reached for the purse that she'd dropped on the floor earlier. She dug out her chapstick and applied it to his lips. She touched his forehead and found his skin very hot to the touch, but he was also starting to sweat. She was about to pull the covers off when he called out and she almost fell over the coffee table.

"No! Mischa! Not Clarice!"

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Oh, this is starting to be fun!


	3. The old man is snoring

Sorry for the confusing punctuation – hope this helps clarify!

Add the usual – I'm just sharing like a good girl!

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He'd lived through this dream so many times, he'd learned to simply dread it rather than be terrified by it. That was something the asylum had done for him. The dream had come less frequently as the years progressed, but he still felt the horrid rush of emotion that was a brew of fear, disgust and resignation.

Tonight, however, something was different. There was a scent that was familiar, but shouldn't be associated with what he knew was going to follow. He shivered with the cold as he gazed fearfully at the slivers of light coming through the cracks in the old wood door. He inhaled deeply trying to place the smell that was new to the mix of moldy hay and horse manure. It made him think of warm sun dried silk.

Clarice!

He glanced down at the warm little body that was nestled against his side.

Mischa!

But something was wrong. He touched the soft curls that were auburn instead of chocolate brown. The little head came up at his touch and sleepy eyes blinked open. He was greeted by familiar slate blue instead of violet. At that moment, the door crashed open and the harsh voices of the soldiers swamped their little world. He didn't even have time to register the usual gut-wrenching details as the little girl was ripped from his grasp.

"No!" he cried out. "Mischa! Not Clarice!" but they were oblivious to their error and the wood door slammed in his face. He pounded against the warped boards until he felt the slivers draw blood from his clenched fists. This was wrong, so terribly wrong! He still had time to save her; they weren't supposed to take her yet!

He woke with a start, the thud of an ax ringing in his ear. He was unsure of his surroundings, but his breathing calmed slightly when he recognized his library. The dream had been so real. In fact he could still smell her, and he cold and sore all over. He glanced down in confusion at the blankets that were covering him and then his gaze met hers. She was alive and she was by his side. He tried to reach towards her cheek but his exhaustion was such that his eyes closed before he could make the required effort. He felt her catch his hand before he descended again into dreamless sleep.

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Ok, no more computer after tomorrow, so this is it for a while. I promise I will post more as soon as I'm relocated and have an internet connection again. Thanks for continuing to read my attempts at being a writer. Luna.


	4. Bumped his head

Clarice watched in shock as Dr. Lecter reached for her throat. She grabbed his hand, ready to break his wrist if she had to, but she instantly felt him relax as he went back to sleep. She released the breath she had been holding and acknowledged that nothing was certain around this man, even her continued safety. His dream must have affected him profoundly if he was willing to break his word and harm her. Perhaps it was a combination of his dream and the effects of the fever.

Clarice knew that Mischa had been his sister and that she had died with the rest of his family during the war, but what could he have been dreaming about? She knew his sister was dead, but what if he didn't remember that fact? If he woke up delirious, she questioned her ability to subdue him. He was weak from being sick, but that only put them on a level playing field physically.

She contemplated her decision not to turn him in. If he hurt her, she wouldn't be able to help either one of them. She still felt she owed him for his care after she'd been shot, and a Starling never missed the opportunity to repay a debt. She felt the shadow of a thought flicker in the back of her mind; something cast in the shadow of her career going up in flames. She finally came to accept that her life in the FBI was over. It was time to move on.

She smiled as she realized that the doctor had a profound effect on all the momentous experiences of her life even. Whether he baited her thought processes with cutting remarks, or was the focus of her unseeing gaze as she reached decisions about herself, his presence in her psyche seemed to fill a lifetime. _Don't let him in your head._ How inadequate that warning seemed after all that had transpired between them. The man lying on the sofa knew her in ways no other human did. She had shared things with him, sometimes unwillingly, that she wouldn't dream of telling anyone else. She wanted to share her latest decision with him, to see what he would say to her. 'I told you so' was probably first on the list.

She reached out and touched his forehead. He was still very warm to the touch, but he was sweating the fever out. She went back to the kitchen for a pitcher of water and sat for the better part of the afternoon squeezing it past his chapped lips.

It was well into evening before she decided that the fever had broken and his temperature was coming down. She knew he would probably sleep for quite sometime, while his body recuperated, and that she could probably leave him long enough to collect some clothes from the hotel and find something to eat. She wandered back to the kitchen, but found nothing in the cupboards that she knew how to cook. After pulling her jacket back on, she found his house keys on a small table by the front door. She checked him once more before she left the house, locking the door behind her.

_________________

He woke up feeling groggy and sore. He knew he'd been sick, but this didn't bother him so much as the fact that he'd been dreaming of Clarice; she had been there to take care of him. First of all, he didn't need anyone to take care of him, and second Clarice was too much the warrior to have any healer in her. He acknowledged that he was a bit obsessed with her, but a little obsession in life was a healthy thing. He began to wonder if his fascination with her was starting to become unhealthy. He sat up on the couch and congratulated himself on his foresight of preparing the den as a sick room. At least that was what he must have done given what he was now seeing. The large fire had kept the room tropically warm, and he'd put a pitcher of water and a glass on the table for when he awoke. He opened the bottle of Tylenol and took two to finish off the fever and subdue the aches he felt all over. He was extremely tired and contemplated going right back to sleep on the couch, but decided his bed would probably be more comfortable. Besides which, he wasn't even wearing any pajamas.

He pulled the heavy comforter that came off his bed around him like a mantle and proceeded to make his way to the stairs. He was panting by the time he reached the first step. He stumbled on the landing, but he was determined to reach his room. His body, however, had other ideas and he sunk to his knees not ten feet from his door. He couldn't force himself to get up again, and was finally overcome by sleep in the middle of the upstairs hallway.

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Clarice came back to the house juggling keys, a small suitcase, and two full grocery bags. The clerk at her hotel had pointed her in the direction of a late night delicatessen. She had soup and sandwiches, and muffins for breakfast in the morning. Her decision to spend the night at the doctor's house had not been easy. She didn't know what he would say when he found that she'd just invited herself in, but she would deal with that when the time came. She wasn't deliberately trying to be rude; what if he needed something in the night?

On getting the door open she headed straight for the kitchen and dumped the groceries on the counter. She left her suitcase at the foot of the stairs and walked into the library to check on him. Her gaze swept the empty room and panic set in as she realized that he was gone! 


	5. On the end of the bed

This is what happens when nobody else writes anything for me to read. I'm left to my own devices.

Add the usual: not mine, never said they were anyway.

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Clarice carried on an inner monologue as she checked her gun and thumbed off the safety.

__

OK Clare, just be calm. Calm, yah right! 

I'm in a house owned by a cannibalistic serial killer, who may or may not be in residence. And he may or may not want to kill me. Wonderful! 

She began to search the house, room by room, closing doors as she went.

OK, he obviously woke up; so much for the theory that his body would need sleep to recuperate. What would he have done then? He knows I was here, but he doesn't know that I've called a temporary truce. He'd want to get out of here as soon as possible. 

The logical side of her mind shuddered at the thought of the doctor back out in the miserable weather. She herself was soaking wet from the inclement conditions outside. The illogical side of her mind was screaming _MONSTER!_ at every shadow she came upon.

He's gonna get you…He's waiting 'til he can sneak up behind you and then he's gonna get you! __

He is not "gonna get me"!

Oh, yes he is. He's gonna…

Oh shut up! 

She had checked every room on the ground floor and came upon the door to the basement.

If he's hiding down there he's gonna have to come up and get me, cuz I'm not going down! __

I told you! He's gonna…

For God's Sake, Shut UP! 

She was mentally screaming at herself as she ascended the stairs to the upper story, gun held low but at the ready. She wasn't sure what to expect if she actually found him. He hadn't seemed overjoyed to see her the last time he woke up.

There's the understatement of the year, girl. He only tried to strangle you without even saying hello. 

She snorted at her grisly sense of humor. She wondered when she'd crossed the line from simply sarcastic to just plain morbid. Further musings were swept from her mind as her line of sight crested the top of the stairs and she spotted something green lying in a large pile in the middle of the hall. It looked like one of the blankets she had taken downstairs.

She raised her gun and pointed it at the blanket.

If the boys back at Quantico could see me now, they'd be laughing their asses off. 

She shook the thought aside and moved slowly towards the lump of fabric. She let out a soft sigh when she spotted the back of a graying head and one bare arm splayed on the floor. She wasn't sure if she was relieved, or afraid to find him still in the house. She toed him with the edge of her boot and when that elicited no response, she put her gun back in its holster at her hip.

He was lying sprawled face down on the floor. He had obviously been trying to get somewhere when he collapsed again. She looked up and saw that he had passed every door on the second floor, but the one straight in front of them.

Let's use our deductive skills now class. 

She walked past the doctor and opened the door. The room beyond was a large bedroom – probably the largest. It contained a king size, four-poster bed that matched the mahogany of the desk, dresser, nightstands and wardrobe.

Ok, he was headed for his bedroom… 

She glanced back at the lump in the hall. Bed was probably a better place for him anyway, now that his fever had broken. The bed was a mess from when she'd torn the blankets off, but she quickly found clean sheets in the closet beside the bathroom. After she'd changed his sheets, she walked back into the hall, trying to figure out how the heck she was going to get him into bed. She started to laugh,

That's right Clare – you want to get Hannibal Lecter MD into bed – try not to think about that too hard. Maybe listening to Ardelia's war stories for all those years will finally pay off. Clarice! BAD GIRL!! Just because he's unconscious now, doesn't mean he's going to be glad to see you when he wakes up. Most likely he's going to be in a very bad mood. In fact, it would probably be best if you weren't anywhere in the general vicinity when he does wake up. 

These thoughts sobered Clarice from her laughing fit. She paused to stare at his chest as she rolled him over onto his back. She snatched her hand back just short of touching him.

I wonder if he looked at me when I was unconscious. I wonder what he thought if he did. __

Clare, STOP IT! This isn't getting either of you anywhere fast.

She grabbed the top corners of the quilt and pulled hard. The quilt actually slid quite easily over the hardwood floors. She had him next to the bed in no time. Getting him up onto the mattress from the floor wasn't as easy. She was glad she'd continued to go to the gym as she wrapped her arms around his chest from behind and hoisted his torso up onto the bed. She tangled her fingers in the thatch of silvering hair on his chest as she sat on the edge of the bed with his unconscious form in her arms.

Clare!!! What would you say if he woke up right now? 

That thought was enough for her to quickly but gently ease him back onto the bed and finish hoisting his legs up. She decided that the doctor, with only his boxer shorts on, was just too much of a distraction and that she should get him into some pajamas if she was going to have any piece of mind. She found a pair of blue silk pajamas in a drawer in the dresser and proceeded to struggle him into them, biting her lip the whole time. The colour reminded her of his eyes. When she finally had the last button on the shirt buttoned she covered him with the sheet and then picked the quilt up off the floor and spread it over him and the rest of the bed.

She took a step back and congratulated herself on a job well done. She was turning into quite the little nurse. She was about to go in search of food to appease her growling stomach when an errant thought stopped her dead in her tracks.

What if he wakes up again? 

She spun back to stare at the doctor. She couldn't just leave him to his own devices up here by himself. She bit her lip as she fingered the handcuffs clipped to the back of her belt. She would be gone by the time he woke up anyway, so he would never know the difference and it would give her some piece of mind in the mean time.

Decision made, she quietly clicked the cuffs around the doctor's right wrist and the bedpost closest to his head. She moved quietly out into the hall and pulled the door to.

____________

Dr. Lecter awoke feeling much better. He inhaled deeply and could have sworn he smelled Clarice in the room.

Impossible! 

He also thought he detected the faint scent of minestrone soup.

Strange… 

The doctor stretched his shoulders, imitating a large jungle cat. The clink of a chain caught his instant attention and his gaze came to rest on silver handcuffs chaining him to the bed.

What the hell?! Cl-ar-ice… 

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Oh, I like this one now I think. Luna.


	6. And didn't get up til the morning

Warning! This turned into a real lack of any serious plot… If you're not ready for some mush quit reading right now.

Add the usual: I have a bus pass, sue me and that's all you'll get.

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Clarice stepped out of the shower and grabbed one of the fluffy cream coloured towels. Dr. Lector's downstairs bathroom was certainly nicer than the one in the hotel room where she'd been staying. She efficiently toweled herself dry and then wrapped the towel around her damp hair and pulled on a pair of sweats. The FBI logo emblazoned across the chest made her pause as she glanced in the mirror.

__

You've decided that life in the FBI is over. So what now?

She didn't have an answer to that. Life in the agency had never been dull and she wondered if she could find a replacement that would keep her interest. A haunting image of her mother cleaning hotel rooms swept across her mind but she quickly pushed it aside. She had a college degree between her and the world that she had been brought up in. _Trailer camp, tornado bait, white trash._ The phrase echoed in her mind. That wasn't her anymore. She'd used college and the FBI to rise above all that, or so she kept telling herself. _He always spoke the truth._ No Dammit!!

She spun away from the glass, and marched into the kitchen. She put her few groceries away, leaving only the minestrone soup on the counter. She found a copper-bottomed pot and turned on a stove element in order to heat the soup. Soon, the monotony of stirring abandoned her to her thoughts again.

__

What do you want Agent Starling?

EX-Agent Starling thank you very much!

Well? What do you want?

I don't know! But that was a lie. The impression of an idea was beginning to form, but she knew she wasn't going to like it once it was fully formed. The fact that the doctor might offer a solution tickled the back of her mind, but she refused to acknowledge what she hoped that solution consisted of. It would be so easy to let someone else make the decisions for awhile.

She shook her head in disgust. What was she thinking? Dr. Lector was no knight in shining armor. He wasn't about to save her from the boring monotony her future promised to become. He probably didn't even think she was worth his time anymore. She certainly wasn't worth playing with now that she wasn't FBI anymore. The image of the doctor reaching for her throat surged before her eyes. It was enough to shake her into the decision to leave and go back to her hotel. She was going to be on the first flight out of the country tomorrow. 

__

Now you're being sensible! she praised herself, but she didn't feel much conviction behind the self-congratulations. She decided that she would leave the doctor a tray with some soup, in case he woke up, and then she would hightail it out of there. She needed to retrieve her handcuffs in any case. _Not like he hasn't gotten out of them before_ the smart-ass in her commented. She refused to inconvenience him that way; at least that was what she told herself as she navigated the stairs, trying to balance a tray with a steaming bowl of soup in its centre.

_______________

Dr. Lecter lay quiet for a moment; his mind assimilating all the information he possessed about his current situation. Clarice had tracked him to London, and had found him when he was ill. He knew he'd been sick for sometime and he had vague impressions of her playing nurse. So, she hadn't called the cavalry.

__

Interesting. 

She was still in the house, he could tell by the minute sounds he heard coming from the kitchen. By the smell, she was probably making some supper. And last, but not least, she'd handcuffed him to his own bed. He smiled as he contemplated all the various motivations she may have had for such an action.

Delightful. 

However, Dr. Lecter objected strenuously to being confined in any way. He rolled over to his nightstand and retrieved the small key he kept in the bottom. A quick snick and his wrist was free. The key was put back in its place and the drawer pushed closed. He left the cuff around his wrist and rolled back into the position he'd woken up in. He closed his eyes as he detected a cautious step on the stairs.

Let the games begin! 

______________

Clarice pushed the door to the doctor's room open with her toe. He was still exactly where she had left him, and he was still sound asleep. She breathed a sigh of relief. She moved forward into the room and walked over to his desk, intent on setting her burden down, before she spilled anything. She had just released the handles of the tray, when a voice said behind her,

"Good evening Clarice."

Clarice jumped and spun around to face the bed. Her eyes met those of icy blue, but she could read nothing of his mood in them. _Thank God, I thought to cuff him_ she thought silently. She finally found her voice,

"Good evening Dr. Lecter. How are you feeling?"

"Much better thanks to you," he replied. She nodded in acceptance of his thanks; she wasn't sure what to say to him now that he was conscious again.

"Now would you mind explaining these, Ex-Special Agent?" he said menacingly, as he gave his wrist a shake.

"I…I…" Clarice stuttered.

"Yes?" he hissed with a quirked eyebrow.

"I wasn't feeling to comfortable with the idea of you being loose in this house while I was here," she explained truthfully.

"But this is my house and you were not invited," he said coldly.

"When I finally tracked you down, I found you comatose on your couch with a fever of 104; I figured that excused the lack of an invitation," she was trying not to let him bully her.

"I suppose I could agree with that," he said after a long pause. He loved to watch her squirm. "So now what are your plans Clarice?" he inquired.

"Well, I came upstairs with some soup for you and I was going to leave the keys to the cuffs on your night stand," she paused and his words filled the silence.

"And did you suppose that I would just lie here like a good boy? Tell me true my dear," the deep rumble of his voice caused her knees to shiver. Some part of her mind noticed that his voice had dropped in pitch since dungeon days. The physical exercise afforded by his freedom was probably the cause of the change. The less nasal, more baritone, quality of his words seemed to scrawl over her skin like the words of a lazy poet.

"I thought you would still be sleeping," she managed to say, while processing the feelings and thoughts the man lying on the bed evoked in her. She should have been in the position of power in the situation; he was handcuffed to the bed for God's sakes! She had a gut feeling that all was not as it seemed. It was time to beat a hasty retreat. She started to back towards the door.

"Ah, but I'm awake," he noted, pointing out the obvious and rubbing her nose in it.

"Um, yah," Clarice was starting to panic. "I think I've overstayed my welcome, so I'll just leave you to your peace and quiet."

"Surely you're not going to leave me chained up. I would find that very rude," the quiet menace was implicit in his tone. Clarice stopped dead in her tracks and fingered the keys in her pocket. She looked at the bed and then at the door, gauging the distances from her position to each. She decided she could run faster than he could unlock the cuffs.

"I have no desire to be rude, doctor, but I would also like to leave this house in the same state I arrived in. I'm going to toss you the keys, and then I'm leaving. I would take it as a courtesy if you would just let me go." She threw the keys in an underhand pitch, so that they landed on the quilt by his knees, then she spun and raced for the door. Her mind was whirling. _Down the stairs, through the hall, out the door, down the street._ She repeated the steps like a mantra, unconcerned about things like a wallet or shoes.

She was almost to the doorframe when an arm grabbed her around the waist and halted her progress. She was lifted off her feet and held against a broad chest, and she closed her eyes as his warm voice whispered in her ear,

"I'm sorry, Clarice, but I can't extend you that courtesy anymore."

__________

Time seemed to slow for Clarice, and the world became strangely silent. She could feel her eyelids drop closed as the memory of his graduation present to her flashed in her mind's eye. _I have no desire to call on you. I hope you will extend me the same courtesy._ She hadn't let him run when he'd asked at the lake house so why should he let her go now? She felt him take a step backwards towards the bed with her and her sense of continuity slipped back into place with a crash. She could hear her laboured breathing and feel the steady puff of his breath against her neck. Her feet moved without her violation and she walked backwards with him to the bed. He reached around her with his other hand and grasped her arm, turning her and forcing her to sit on the bed. He stood over her looking down at her bowed head. Her short staccato breaths alerted him to the adrenaline in her system. In the next minute she was either going to fight or run; either scenario presented fun possibilities for the continuation of their game, but he wanted to talk to her first.

"You sit there, and we'll have a little chat, hmm?" her head moved up at his words but she didn't meet his eyes directly. He clucked his tongue and grasped her chin in his hand, turning her face until he caught her gaze with his own. 

"Now then, I need some information from you," he began.

"Why did you come to London?" The questions flew like bullets.

"To find you," she had no time to think about her answers while trapped in his eyes.

"How did you know I was here?"

"Gut instinct."

"And that lovely little article in the Tattler." It wasn't a question, but she nodded anyway.

"I wondered if you would pop up on my doorstep," he commented absently. "I'm sorry I wasn't in any condition to welcome you properly." The double meaning in his words caused her to tremble slightly. He noticed but didn't comment.

"Now why would you want to find me?" he asked. Clarice didn't reply right away, but he could read the answer in her eyes. "I'm waiting Clarice." The end of her name was a hiss she was used to hearing over the crackle of a cassette tape.

"So I could arrest you," she said, knowing he would only accept the truth.

"So you could barter your way back into the F.B.I.?" he sneered. The flash in her eyes caught him off guard as she gave her reply,

"No." She wasn't lying, he could tell. Something had changed since he'd last plumbed her depths. He tested the waters a little further.

"But what else is a little Starling to do with herself?"

"I don't know," came the easy reply, "but not that. Not anymore." He felt her relax under his grip as she voiced her decision to another being for the first time. _Interesting indeed._

"And did you come to this momentous decision on the plane on the way over here?" he queried, purposely not giving her any praise.

"No. While I was looking after you."

"Ah yes. I didn't think a warrior would be very talented in the healing arts," he mused.

"I've had a lot of experience with healing," she said. He quirked an eyebrow at her enlightened statement. She wasn't sure what she'd said to cause the look of surprise, but maybe if she could keep him surprised he wouldn't get bored and decide to end this.

"And did you like playing the role of healer?" his tone made her feel defensive, as if she hadn't done a good job.

"I liked not having to worry about your reactions," she replied honestly.

"Rather like playing with a sleeping tiger, no?" His question, once again, brought forth the image of him reaching for her throat and she tensed under his grip.

"What?" he questioned seeing the flash of fear in her eyes. There was no need to elaborate; she knew what he was asking.

"You were dreaming during your fever and then you woke up for a minute," she gave the explanation simply. He remembered the dream and had shelved it for later inspection and analysis. He also remembered reaching out to touch her before he drifted off again. Why that should scare her, he wasn't sure. He let the question cross his face and his expression broke her tranquillity. She brought her hands up to grasp his wrists, and stared back into his eyes, no longer the passive respondent.

"Why don't you finish with what you started, doctor? I'm not an F.B.I. agent anymore; nobody will miss me for quite sometime. I'm no use as a go-between with Jack, so why continue to play? It can't be much fun after you've messed with the entire F.B.I.," she hissed out the three letters in an imitation of his speech so long ago.

"You don't see yourself as a worthy playmate Clarice?" he asked mockingly.

"I was never a 'playmate' doctor. A play_thing_ yes, but never a playmate!" she ground out.

"I think you underestimate yourself, my dear. I found you to be a worthy playmate indeed," she cut him of.

"I used to be, but no longer, correct?"

"I never said that," he said.

"No, but actions speak louder than words," she disagreed.

"Are you insinuating that I've ever tried to take your life?" he asked sharply.

"Not Clarice! Mischa!" she mimicked the words from his dream. He frowned as his mind reached for the connections.

"Ya tried to fuckin' strangle me!" Clarice yelled as she wrenched herself from his grasp and stood up. His body still blocked the only escape route from the room. The accent in her voice was thick, and she sucked back a breath trying to control both her words and her emotions. She needed to think clearly if she was going to get out of the room alive.

Dr. Lecter finally understood her interpretation of the little scene in the library. She had thought he had threatened her life while in a very primal state of mind, and she equated that with a breach of trust. She'd had too many promises broken during her life, and he wasn't about to let her put him in the same category as her parents and Jack Crawford. The only question was how to make her understand what had actually happened. He wasn't about to go down on his knees and make a tearful confession of his childhood and the nightmares that haunted him. She had no need to know such things. He decided a more direct approach was in order, particularly because he could tell that this latest emotional upset had finally kicked in her delayed defense reaction. Frankly, he was surprised the conversation had continued for as long as it had.

He was ready for her as she dove across the bed and rolled to her feet on the floor on the other side. She started a headlong run for the door that ended in a resounding crash as he neatly tripped her. They both heard the radius in her right arm snap like a dry branch. Clarice sucked in an abbreviated scream and rolled to her back trying to control the pain.

The doctor shook his head as he looked down on her, part of him savouring her tears. "See what happens when you do what you shouldn't?" he asked as he knelt beside her. "Now it's my turn to play doctor." Clarice would have laughed at the bizarre turn of events if she hadn't been in so much pain. "All right, up we go," the doctor said as he lifted her from the floor. The movement jarred her arm and Clarice promptly fainted.

When she awoke, she looked up at the ceiling and then closed her eyes again at the thought of her dumb luck. Her arm didn't hurt anymore; in fact, she couldn't feel it. She glanced down to see the neat splints and bandage that wrapped her lower arm. She could feel a slight tingling in her fingers and surmised that the doctor must have given her a shot of local anesthetic, before he set her arm. Thinking of the doctor made her glance up and her gaze was again caught in his fiery blue stare. He was seated in an armchair across the bed from her.

"How are you feeling?" he asked after an appropriate moment of silence.

"Pretty stupid. I just get a debt paid off and I put myself right back where I started" she said.

"Hmm. I was speaking about your arm my dear," he said with an indulgent smile. So she felt she owed him did she?

"Oh. I don't feel it at all," she spoke quietly.

"Perfect," he sounded like the tiger he'd referred to earlier. He rose and moved to her side. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he leaned forward, over her, resting his hands on either side of her body. "Now back to business." He could sense her body tense up as he put his hand to her throat. "You spoke earlier of me trying to strangle you," his tone was sharp, and his words direct. "If I had actually wanted you dead, Clarice, I would have succeeded despite my malaise. There are so many occasions on which I could have taken your life," he pressed down on her windpipe ever so slightly and watched as her eyes widened before he released the pressure. "But I didn't because I made the decision long ago to leave you alive." He purposely avoided the word promise. "In case you haven't figured out our current situation, I'll paint you a picture. You have always been and will continue to be a worthy playmate. You are a being not an object. What I didn't expect when we first met is how worthy you would be as a mate." He watched as his words permeated her understanding and smiled at the sharp intake of her breath. Wanting that bit of air for himself, he leaned down and captured her lips with his own. He didn't release her until she had surrendered that breath. Lifting his head far enough to look down into her eyes and she felt the air from his lungs warm her nose and cheeks.

"I'm afraid I'm not going to allow you to run from me or yourself any longer," he whispered. He watched her eyebrows flash up in amazement.

"You can't just keep me here!" she exclaimed rather breathlessly. He noted just how effectively his kiss had claimed her senses. The cuff snapped around the bedpost before she was aware of the existence of its mate around her left wrist. With his girl securely chained to the other side of the bed from his own he allowed a full smile to cross his features.

"Can't I?" he asked as he leaned low to nuzzle her ear and the side of her neck where he bit her sharply, marking his mate as his own.

She tried to squirm away from him but his strong hands held her still as he spoke once more.

"Make no mistake Clarice, you are mine. But we wont pursue our present course until you have reached the same conclusion," he sat up and unlocked the handcuffs, placing them on the bedside table. Standing, he offered her a hand as she sat up. "In the mean time, I feel like a little midnight snack," he winked at her and then moved to the door. "Coming?" he called over his shoulder and then disappeared down the hall.

Clarice glanced at the clock on his desk and discovered that it was indeed twenty five past twelve. She got up, holding her bandaged arm to her chest, and paced the room replaying his words.

Worthy as a mate. He never lied. 

It was her solution. He had made the decision for her, but was she willing to accept it? Her hands moved to the side of her neck and touched the tender skin there. He had marked her as his, and that didn't set well with her. But hadn't he marked her in a more subtle way all those years ago when ha had chosen to speak to her. Was there really any difference? Starling tried to sort out her troubled thoughts but she was tired and her arm was beginning to throb ever so slightly. She moved back to the bed and lay down. Tomorrow was soon enough to figure out the question.

____________

Dr. Lecter smiled when he returned from downstairs with a pitcher of ice water and two tumblers. He had been prepared to offer Clarice one of the other bedrooms, but the scene that greeted him, assured him the gesture wasn't necessary. The site of Clarice curled up on her side on his bed, her injured limb clutched protectively to her chest, bemused him to some extent. He placed the pitcher and glasses on his nightstand and then walked around the bed to open the window. The smell of damp washed over him, but the rain had stopped falling. He decided it would be a sunny day as he turned back to bed.

____________

That's all folks! Still working on our bargain Lady – email me when you're ready to make the trade. Thanks for all the nice reviews! luna.


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